


Satellite

by twoscarypandas



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Inspired by Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoscarypandas/pseuds/twoscarypandas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Germany must learn to express his affections or risk breaking Italy's heart. In the process he realizes just how much his life has come to revolve around the Italian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satellite

**Author's Note:**

> Another one that's been on FF for a while.  
> Author: PandaG  
> Inspired by "Satellite," as performed by Lena for Eurovision 2010.

It should have been an average day for Germany. He woke promptly at 5:00 am for his morning work-out. By 5:45 he was in the shower, and at exactly 6:05 he sat down to breakfast in a perfectly ordered uniform.

There is something tugging at him, however, as he swallows down oatmeal and orange juice. It is…quiet; peaceful even. It is always quieter in the mornings, before Prussia manages to roll out of bed and demand coffee for his inevitable hangover. But there is something eerie about this silence.

It is only when his eyes land on the cooling bowl of honey-sweetened oatmeal and a full glass of juice that he realizes it. Italy is not there.

Now, the disturbing thing _should_ be the fact that he had automatically acted as though his friend was with him. He’d rolled carefully out of his side of the bed so as not to disturb the late-sleeping Italian; done his laps imagining the man’s sweet face flushed as it always got when he ran; left the door to the bathroom ajar so Italy could join him in the shower if he woke in time; made breakfast for him, and left it in his usual space. Yet all of this has become so common place, it does not faze him.

Germany shakes his head. This is ridiculous, and he should not be worried. Italy is probably just sleeping in later than usual, as he often does. But now that he thinks about it, he realizes that his bed was cold this morning, as though he’d been alone all night. He shifts his neck, trying to work out the kinks; he really didn’t sleep as well as he usually does.

Just as he’s telling himself that there’s nothing _wrong_ with Italy wanting a night in his own bed – quite the opposite, really – the dogs outside start barking like mad and there’s a pounding on his door. With a sigh Germany stands and goes to open it. Did Italy get locked out? Is he forgetting a meeting? Perhaps Switzerland is here to complain about dogs shitting on his lawn again. He cannot fathom why the man always assumes it’s _his_ dogs; he’s got them well trained, and he always picks up after them. Prussia, on the other hand…seems to get a kick out of it.

Stealing himself to face down the barrel of a gun, he slides the door open – and immediately receives a tomato to the face. “What ze holle…?!”

“That’s what you get, you two-timing potato bastard!”

Germany wipes the fruit out of his eyes, but he doesn’t need to see to know who it is. “Romano.” Now his uniform has bits of tomato on it and he will have to shower _again_. He barely restrains his anger. “What have I told you about assaulting me on my property? Unwarranted acts of aggression-”

“UNWARRANTED?” Romano screeches, and Germany ducks another tomato. “I’ll show you unwarranted, brother-fucking swine!”

The color rises instantly to his cheeks and his grip on the doorknob tightens. “Now you wait just a minute, those rumors are completely unfounded! Buder and I are not-“

Once again, he’s interrupted by a tomato. This time he gets the door half-shut in time to use it as a shield. Romano is turning about the same color as his ammunition. “I WASN’T TALKING ABOUT YOUR BROTHER! Who cares about that stupid dissolved drunk, he’s a waste of space and he should stay the fuck away from Spain!”

Germany blinks. “Ah, what…what are you talking about?”

“MY brother, you moron! He came to my house yesterday and he hasn’t left since! He’s cooked all my pasta, and drunk all my wine, and now he’s in a pasta-induced siesta in MY bed! It’s ALL. YOUR. FAULT.” Romano pokes him hard in the chest to emphasize each word.

“Wait…Vene is at your house?” Well, at least he is safe, and not someplace dangerous like Russia. Or worse… _France._ But it sounds like he must be upset about something. Germany frowns; maybe he pushed him a little too hard in training. Or after the training, when they were…he blushes and tries to stop thinking about those things in front of Romano. “What’s wrong? Is he sick?”

“LOVEsick, maybe. And it _is_ pretty sick, since you’re involved.” Romano wrinkles his nose in distaste. “But he is my fratellino, and it’s my job to see that anyone who strings him along faces the consequences.”

“Love…sick?” Germany stares, the wheels in his head spinning and sputtering, but not making much sense of this. “Well, ah, we have been…together for some time. But I cannot think of anything I’ve done to upset him. I promised a long time ago to treat him with respect, and I have never overstepped those boundaries.” _Unless Italy initiated it._

Romano glares and crosses his arms. “Together are you? You do a shit job of showing it. Always putting up a wall, never letting him get too close in public, treating him like some annoying tag-along. That’s _my_ job.”

“What? No, I…I didn’t think he’d want…”

“Are you fucking _BLIND?_ ” Romano snorts. “Vene thinks you don’t care about him! And why would he? You certainly don’t act like you want to be with him.”

“Of course I do!” Germany protests. “I try very hard. I even got a pasta maker!”

“Yeah, but when was the last time you _told_ him that you wanted to be with him? Did you ever actually _say_ you were together? Vene’s not the ripest tomato in the patch. He doesn’t pick up on shit like you arranging a tiny little spot in your life for him. That’s not fair, anyway. He should be part of everything in your life, not just some corner.”

“I…” But there’s nothing he can think of to say. Now that he thinks about it, he really can’t recall the last time they actually discussed their…relationship. The last time he said “I love you” outside of bed. The last time he did anything truly romantic for his dear little Italy. Yet…in all the ways that count for him, Italy has been completely integrated into his life. “He is part of everything. But maybe…he doesn’t know it.”

Romano grunts. “Ya _think_? Shit, even I let Spain know he’s kind of okay sometimes, and that man doesn’t know the meaning of ‘boundaries’. So you had better FIX THIS, potato bastard, or so help me I’ll show you the true wrath of Southern Italy!”

Germany does not want to imagine what that might be; he’s having enough trouble with the tomato staining his shirt. “I…will do something.”

“Yeah? It had better be good. Take it or leave it, jerk; because if you don’t do something soon, Vene isn’t gonna hang around. I won’t let him get stepped on any more! I’m talking a full blown retreat here, and you’ll be lucky if you see the dust he leaves behind.” Romano tosses one more tomato that Germany is too stunned to avoid, laughs, and takes off.

XXX

Germany spends the rest of the day calculating every last detail of his plan to prove his love to Vene. The trouble is…he’s never really wooed anyone before, so he has no choice but to ask for some help.

Prussia’s advice to get Italy drunk and fuck like rabbits is predictable and unhelpful. France’s suggestion involves a great deal of nudity and several things he is uncomfortable repeating. Austria recommends a marriage proposal accompanied by Tchaikovsky’s Fantasy Overture, which seems rather extreme, as does Russia’s offer to become one with both of them. America swears a weekend in Vegas will do the trick, but for the life of him he can’t recall the suggestion of …ah, that other one. England pats him on the shoulder sympathetically and gives him a book of romantic poetry. To his shock and horror, half of it is covered in little notes written in French, and a pressed maple leaf falls from between the pages.

The day is nearly done by the time Germany returns home, defeated, with no decent plan to face Italy and very, very late (5 whole minutes) to his meeting with Japan. The man takes one look at him, raises an eyebrow, and says: “Ah.” That is the best advice he’s received all day.

By the time the meeting ends he is miserable, despite its productivity. He starts the water for pasta (he’s given up his attempts at making his own, and simply uses Vene’s leftovers), puts a bottle of his best wine in the fridge (a very rare 1973 Chateau Montelena Chardonnay), and heads upstairs to shower and change.

Freshly washed and smelling of that cologne Italy so enjoys, he uses the gel Italy gave him to slick back his hair. It makes it less stiff than his usual look, should his lover wish to run his hands through it later tonight. He puts on a pair of briefs – he’d gotten them just for Vene, who preferred to see the way they clung to his…ah...

Blushing furiously, Germany steps into a well-pressed, practical suit and tie. He stares down at his toes for a moment, wondering why they are painted red before he remembers Italy’s sudden compulsion to have matching pedicures (he blames Poland for this entirely). With a shudder he pulls on socks and boots. Why hasn’t he taken that off yet?

The water is ready when he gets back downstairs. Germany does his best to stir it properly, adding salt the way Vene showed him. There’s an alfredo sauce bubbling next to it on the stove now, and soon dinner is ready. But Vene is still not there.

Outside it gets dark, and Germany flips on the porch light. He waits. He feeds the dogs. He checks his phone. He watches his brother stumble out from the basement apartment to greet France with a wildly inappropriate kiss, then drive off in France’s wildly expensive car. He waits. He almost calls Romano, and stops only when he realizes that Spain must be with him if he wasn’t in France’s car, and that interrupting would result in another unpleasant morning of stained uniforms.

Finally, there is a knock at his door. Heart thumping, Germany opens it and tries not to feel quite so relieved to find Italy on his porch. “I’ma so sorry Germany! I tried really hard to get here, but I was talking with fratello and Spain and then I forgot what time it was and I had to take a short cut through Switzerland’s yard, which turned out to be a long-cut – is there such a thing as a long cut? – because he shot out one of my tires, and I had to call for help but Poland came by and said he was really good with making cars run – I didn’t know that, did you? – anyway he helped me to fix the tire even though he got his hands dirty and wasn’t that nice of him because he was going to see Lithuania, but he stopped because I told him I had to see you and even though he doesn’t like you very much, oh I’m sorry I mean-”

Germany almost smiles, and puts a finger to his lips. “It’s okay, liebhaber. I am glad you are here.” He hesitates a moment, then leans down to give him a kiss, right there on the porch where anyone might see.

“Oh,” says Italy, and his smile makes Germany’s heart flip. He has to think of a way to prove what he feels for this man, to express it. Maybe dinner will help?

He draws Vene into the kitchen and pours the wine while his lover oohs and ahs over every detail, only a slight twitch of dismay tracing over his face when he tastes a noodle and discovers it’s been over-salted. Thankfully, the sauce is done mostly right and covers this little detail.

They sit at the table together, Italy babbling on about his day while Germany drinks and tries to figure out what to say. It’s good, for wine, he has to admit that. Well worth listening to America brag about it. Maybe he should consider that weekend in Vegas? No; that’s how Prussia ended up married and divorced to both Spain _and_ France within twenty-four hours. Romano has never quite forgiven any of them for it.

“Ah, Germany?” The hesitant little question makes Germany look up. He hadn’t realized he’s been staring at his food, saying nothing, and now Italy’s eyes are bright and wet. Oh no…he’s done it again. “Look, this is very nice of you, but…you don’t have to pretend, you know. If you don’t like me that way. We can just…I’ll go back to my house, and not bother you anymore, except sometimes if you want to have sex.”

Germany’s heart falls through his stomach, and he leaps up. “NO!” The vehemence of his shout surprises even him. He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Ah, that is…scheiße…”

“Oh.” Vene’s face falls even further, and his lip quivers. “We don’t have to do that either, if you don’t like it.”

“No! It’s not that, I, ah, I like it very much. I like _you_ very much.” Just those last words make Italy perk up, and suddenly, Germany finds himself taking advice from the one person who gave it without his asking. _When was the last time you told him that you wanted to be with him?_

“Vene, I want to be with you. I am sorry I do not say that enough. The thing is, you’ve become so much a part of my life, I…I maybe don’t notice as often as I should. I am not romantic, but I do _try_ , because…because I like you very much and I cannot be without you.” He stands, and goes to sit on one knee by Italy’s chair. “I spent today going everywhere for you. I even did my hair for you, I bought new _underwear_ for you…and I wore them today.”

Vene giggles, giving Germany all the encouragement he needs despite the burn of his cheeks. “If you’re upset with me, I deserve it. But I’m going to fight for you; I’ll leave the light on every night, and I will love you no matter what. If this is what you need to hear, liebhabar, I am going to tell you every day. My life revolves around yours, and I would fall without you.”

He kisses Italy’s knuckles, paying special attention to each one until his little lover is blushing. “Germany…”

“I have it bad for you,” he continues. The line is one he’s heard from his brother and he nearly winces, but Italy seems fond of such affections. He’s determined to make up for his silence now, and to keep making up for it – at least in the privacy of their homes, and perhaps sometimes in public to prove that he’s not trying to hide their relationship. “I save my very best for you. Even if you make me angry, I would still love only you. Vene, I painted my _toes_ for you.”

With a laugh Italy bends to kiss his hair. “And they look so cute, ve!”

Germany smiles in spite of himself, and turns his head up to catch those sweet lips against his own. When they break apart, he holds his eyes with all the seriousness he keeps in every aspect of his life. “I will follow where you go. Set the pace fast or slow, I’m yours. I couldn’t escape you if I wanted to. I _love_ you, Vene, my sweet, silly Italy. I do not want to go a day without you ever again.”

There is a moment of silence, and then Germany finds himself on his back with an armful of Italian. “Te amo, te amo, te amo!” Vene declares, covering his face with kisses. “Oh Germany, I was so worried that you didn’t like me because you never said anything! But you’re right, you do all sorts of things for me, and I was silly to worry. I don’t want you to change too much for me. I want you just the way you are. Except...”

Germany frowns, brushing his thumb over Italy’s cheek to ease the funny look on his face. “What is it? Did I say something wrong?”

Italy smirks, and it’s so wicked that he almost flinches. “Did you _really_ get new underwear?”

With a growling laugh, Germany tugs him closer and kisses him soundly. “You will have to find out.”


End file.
